


No Reason At All

by Wayward_Warlocks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Depression, Gen, Good Sibling Dean Winchester, Graphic Description, Sad with a Happy Ending, Self-Harm, Self-Harming Sam Winchester, Suicidal Thoughts, Supportive Dean Winchester, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:41:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25098562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wayward_Warlocks/pseuds/Wayward_Warlocks
Summary: HUGE TRIGGER WARNING!! This is hella graphic. I contemplated not posting this, but I'm 3 months clean today and had the urge to project my feelings onto poor ol' Sam Winchester. And reading about my favourite characters struggling helps me, in some weird way, so I thought I'd post for the hell of it. But you've been warned. Please don't read this if you think it'll trigger you. Stay safe :)"Sam's always been a crier. It disappoints his father, but Sam Winchester cries at absolutely anything. Now, though, he can't bring himself to cry. In fact, Sam hasn't cried for months. John and Dean have both noticed, the former making a comment about Sam "finally manning up", and Sam's older brother telling him that this is good - he's tougher now. That'll make him a better hunter. Sam doesn't feel better, though. In fact, he's never felt worse."
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 14
Kudos: 93





	No Reason At All

Sam's always been a crier. It disappoints his father, John, but Sam Winchester cries at absolutely anything. Something happens a bit too suddenly? A reminder of his mother? His dad raises his voice at him? He cries. Sam hates it, but he can't help it sometimes.

Now, though, he can't bring himself to cry. He can't shed a single tear.

In fact, Sam hasn't cried for months. John and Dean have both noticed, the former making a comment about Sam "finally manning up", and Sam's older brother telling him that this is good - he's tougher now. That'll make him a better hunter.

Sam doesn't feel better, though. In fact, he's never felt worse. He doesn't cry anymore because he doesn't _feel_ anymore. He doesn't care for school anymore. Why would he, when he's just going to carry on the "family business" when he graduates? He doesn't have any friends, aside from Dean, who's off hunting with dad most days now, anyway. Put simply, nothing brings him joy anymore. Nothing brings him much of _anything_ anymore. He feels completely numb.

Sometimes, the numbness carries to his body, too. With his mind seemingly frozen in time, his eyes incapable of focusing on his surroundings, his body, too, will begin to tingle, and then halt all operations with the rest.

The first time he takes one of his brother's hunting knives to his skin, he's apprehensive. Dean and John won't be back for three days at the very least, but he's sat cross-legged in the bath anyway, so he can wash away any mess he makes. He's stripped down to his underwear and a t-shirt. His legs, he thinks logically, are a good choice. It's not like the Winchesters take family trips to the beach, so any injuries are less likely to be spotted there. His stomach churns at the thought of John or Dean seeing him, littered in self-inflicted cuts. He pushes away the thoughts of what they'd say, looks to his pale thighs, and takes a deep breath.

It's not anything like TV had made him believe it would be. In fact, there's something... interesting about it. If he looks closely, for just a moment, he can actually see the layers of muscle beneath his skin before the blood pools in and pours over his limbs, onto the cool porcelain of the bathtub beneath him.

Some time later, he pulls himself from his trance, and grimaces at the cuts as he counts them. Fourteen, fifteen, _sixteen_ cuts. Had he really done all of that? He hadn't even felt it.

On the note of feeling, though, once he's gauzed up and back in bed, he registers that the numb feeling is _gone_. He watches TV for hours, and actually _enjoys_ it again. He falls asleep, feeling satisfied for the first time in months, despite the dull aching in his thighs.

The next day, Sam wakes up to find that the emptiness has returned. He looks to the knife on the bedside table, and then to the leaflet for the diner in town under it. He'll get something to eat first - he's still pretty light-headed from the night before.

As he gets ready to leave, he notices two things; the previously soothing high water pressure of the shower now feels like a thousand tiny needles penetrating his skin; and every time he takes a step, the bigger, nastier cuts reopen. So much so, that he can see little splotches of red that have made it through the gauze and his jeans by the time he takes his seat at the diner. Fortunately, given the Winchesters' line of work, this problem of immobility effectively deters Sam from cutting his thighs again. Unfortunately, Sam has plenty more places on his body he can try carving.

By the time Dean and John return from their rougarou hunt eight days later, Sam has tried his thighs, calves and hips before finally surrendering and settling on his wrists and forearms. He can just wear long sleeves, he decides, and if he accidentally nicks an artery and bleeds out, well, he won't bother trying to stop it.

-

Some months later, Sam sits on his motel bed, his new favourite knife to his wrist, with the intention of dragging it from the base of his palm to his elbow. He focuses on the note in front of him - the one he wrote for Dean, and decidedly _not_ for John. It's full of apologies and explanations, but there's something so dissatisfying about it. How can he possibly say everything he'd ever need to say, his _dying words_ , on one page of A4?

Still though, he doesn't cry. He doesn't feel anything, aside from vaguely sad. It's impossible to describe perfectly, but he feels like the sadness is buried in a locked box deep underwater, somewhere in the back of his mind, screaming _just_ loud enough that he can barely hear it. It's a feeling he's much too familiar with now.

The more he thinks about death, and leaving Dean behind, and whether this is going to hurt, the more he shakes. It's a strange feeling, and he feels his grip on the knife slack as he hones in on what's happening to him. _Shaking_ , he thinks, _tends to come with crying_. Sobbing even. But he's not crying. He's not even sad. Not _really_. He's certainly been sadder, and he's never shaken like this; like his skeleton's trying to escape his body. He puts the knife down with a defeated huff, and lays down for a restless night's sleep.

From then on, when Sam feels anger or sadness or fear, _really_ strongly, he shakes. As he gets better, it is accompanied by rage, or tears - _normal_ things- but the shaking remains.

-

To his own amazement, he makes it through his teens. He makes it through his 20s, in fact. Technically. He does die a couple of times along the way, but never by his own hand. His scars even go largely unnoticed. Jess was the only person he'd ever told about his eight-month-long "episode" and the times since then, when the numbness had returned, and he'd broken and gone back to his bad habits. She was ever-so kind and understanding, and she didn't tell Sam that _it gets better_ , or that he's _so young with so much to live for_ , like he'd feared she'd say. Instead, she told him she loved him, and that _sure_ , _you don't have a purpose, but no one does. That doesn't mean my world isn't better with you in it_.

But that was a long time ago now, and long since put to the back of Sam's mind, save for when he needs it. It's been four years since he'd last cut himself, with the exception of doing it for spells or summonings. Aside from catching a glimpse of his bare wrists in the shower, or his thighs when sitting on the toilet, he doesn't think about his scars. or when he'd created them. And he never talks about it.

Not until he enters the bunker's kitchen in the wee hours, to brew a coffee before his morning jog. He's only in a shirt and boxers as he leans against the dining table, watching the pot gather steam in a semi-conscious haze. It doesn't matter that he's not covered, because Dean's never awake until noon at the earliest.

At least, he _had_ never been awake this early, until today. He doesn't even hear his brother padding along the concrete until it's too late. In hindsight, there's nothing he could've done anyway, aside from running to the laundry basket to throw on a dirty pair of jeans at light-speed, or a towel to hold in front of himself. Either one would've raised more questions than it'd be worth, he would later decide.

It's Dean's cautious "Sammy?" that draws the younger Winchester from his trance. His eyes snap to meet his brother's and widen, immediately freezing up. "Those from a hunt?" He asks, pointing at the dozens of long white scars travelling all along his figure.

"Yes?" Sam responds, cringing at his own obviously dishonest tone. He feels it in his hands first, the shaking. Dean knows that Sammy shakes, has for years, just doesn't know why.

"I ain't that stupid, Sammy." His brother shoots back, stepping closer. He picks up Sam's arm, like he _knows_ there's more there, and inspects it. "How old are these?"

Sam breathes a shaky sigh of relief, silently thanking whatever forces at work that he doesn't have to say the words 'they're self-harm scars' or something equally embarrassing. He hates using that term, or 'cutting'. It feels so... cliché. Like he followed some trend. Like he did it because he saw someone in a movie doing it, and just haphazardly decided to give it a go, for kicks.

"Depends."

"Okay, Fiver, when did this start?"

"When I was 16-" Sam starts. All at once, the dam breaks. "I haven't done it in years, Dean, I swear, and I would've told you but I just felt so _unclean_ and ashamed and I thought maybe it would be a burden or you would get worried and tell dad and then it got to the point where it had been-"

Sam's panicked rambling is cut short by the sensation of being pulled into a tight hug. He returns the gesture and tries to still his trembling frame. Suddenly, he's a teenager again. He towers over Dean now, but for a moment, he feels small, and fragile. It's just he and his big brother against the world, and he feels looked after, and protected, and _safe_.

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Sammy. Ever." Dean tells him, before breaking the hug. He keeps his hands on Sam's shoulders, though, looking him in the eye with a kind of intensity Sam's not sure he's ever seen on him. "But you could _never_ burden me. If you ever want to talk, I'll listen. And if you _ever_ feel that way again-"

"I'll tell you. I know." He smiles, despite himself. He's just so incredibly _relieved_ , even if he is still shaking, and even if the tears continue to fall. He's pulled in for another hug.

"You're my baby brother, like it or not. I was put here to look out for you, kid. Let me do that."

"Actually, you were put here to be Michael's vessel." Sam replies, earning a swift smack upside the back of his head, though the hug doesn't break. He breathes a chuckle. "Sorry, sorry. You're right. And I am sorry. I'll tell you if it ever gets that bad again. My coffee's gonna get cold, though, so if you could let go of me that'd be great."

In his considerably complicated life, Sam has only known two things for certain; Dean will always do his best to keep his little brother safe, even if that means doing something completely stupid and regrettable; and crying is a good thing. He spent a long time being told that crying was a sign of weakness, and believing it. But now, when he cries, Sam is just thankful that it means he's still feeling, and that the bad feelings are getting out. When the pain passes - and it will - he'll be able to once again experience all the good parts of feeling. The joy and laughter and love, they all make pain worth it. And if the emptiness returns, he's got a big brother who loves him, ready to help him through to the other side.

**Author's Note:**

> crikey. i haven't written in ages. was good to take the olde writing fingies out for a spin. if you made it this far, any constructive criticism is appreciated!! thanks for reading lovelies x


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